


Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, Dark, Dubious Consent, Episode Tag, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-22
Updated: 2009-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:50:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke hasn't forgiven Sylar for leaving him behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Luke is 17.

_It's loud. Really loud; people are shouting all around them, screaming, too, as glass shatters and guns fire. Boots are pounding everywhere, surrounding them, and Luke's pulse seems to throb frantically in time. Sylar grabs his shoulder, pushes him forward as they jump through the window together. Luke wants to laugh in the faces of all the men with guns who thought they could take Sylar down._

_Then, even though it's day, everything goes dark. And people are still shouting, gunshots still cracking at their heels but all the sounds are muffled. Luke's fingers curve under the door handle, and he pulls, and pulls and _pulls_ but the door won't open. He pounds on the window until his hand is bruised and Sylar grins an evil, wicked smile. All Luke can hear is laughter, now, but it's Sylar's not his own._

The car is pulling away from him and he feels like he's been punched in the gut. He's shouting, "Sylar!", or at least he thinks he is; his chest is tight and his ears seemed blocked. His legs are heavy, so very heavy and he can't seem to move at all although he wants desperately to run behind the car as fast as he can and not let Sylar get away. He's cold all over and he starts to panic, watching as the car drives off and Sylar doesn't once glance back.

There's a crack behind him, and then all he can feel is the burning, burning sting in his shoulder. Electricity shudders through him, searing through his veins and he can't stop himself convulsing and tumbling to the floor. "Sylar!"

"Sylar!" Luke gasps as he wakes. His heart is pounding and his body shakes with his laboured breathing. Luke's arms and legs feel on the edge of cramping and his fingers twitch, still grappling with a phantom door that will not open.

It takes Luke a second to get his bearings and when he does, he shakes his head, glancing quickly to the side, but it's too much to hope that Sylar hasn't noticed. He's sitting up in bed, a dog-eared paperback novel he's found, somewhere, resting in his lap. There are candy wrappers on the nightstand and Luke narrows his eyes, holding back anger that while he slept Sylar left him there alone in search of chocolate.

Luke rubs his eyes and Sylar's still watching him with his head cocked curiously to the side. It's clear he heard Luke call out his name. Luke wonders how much else he has let slip as he slept.

"Okay?" Sylar asks warily.

Luke nods, stumbling past him to the bathroom, praying that Sylar won't hear him if he's sick.

***

When Luke emerges, feeling calmer, the bedroom is dark. Sylar's on his side and his book has been put away. Luke tiptoes back to bed, trying not to wake him.

He tosses and turns, but he can't seem to sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, the memory, _the nightmare_, of what happened tries to suck him under. The electric burns on his shoulder throb in tune with his thoughts.

Luke can't be sure how much time has passed---an hour, maybe more?---when, from the other bed, Sylar growls, "Go to sleep."

Luke gives a noncommittal grunt but Sylar insists, "I mean it. Sleep. Now."

"Why do you even care?" Luke snaps.

Sylar makes an exasperated noise, the verbal equivalent of a shrug and sits. "I _don't_ care," he hisses, and Luke recoils like he's been slapped. "But if you're tired, you'll be sloppy and I'm not having you fuck this up when we're so close. I don't know what your problem is but you need to shut up and go to sleep."

"Or what?" Luke yells, not caring how loud his voice is or how much the neighbouring rooms will overhear. "Or you'll leave me to take the fall when the shit hits the fan? Again?"

Sylar snorts, and even in the darkness of the room, Luke can see him scowl. "Just go to sleep, you're embarrassing yourself."

He rolls over, putting his back to Luke. Luke's fingers twitch, microwaves pulsing hotter and hotter beneath his skin, thrumming through him dangerously the angrier he becomes. But, when he leaps from the bed and rounds on Sylar's prone form, sick of being dismissed and condescended to, abandoned like he doesn't matter and then picked back up again and expected not to care, Luke uses his fists not his power.

He hits Sylar, again and again, striking his shoulders and back and neck, grunting wildly as he throws his bodyweight into every punch. Sylar shouts out in shock and tries to twist under the onslaught, to grab at Luke's hands and make him stop, but Luke seethes with rage, pounding it out on Sylar's body. Luke loses all sense of what is happening beyond the satisfying crack of bone and the sting of blood as the skin between his knuckles splits. He punches Sylar until he's out of breath and his arms burn with the exertion, and then, he keeps on punching, hitting chest, now, arms, face and stomach, not caring that Sylar can heal if he can still feel pain. If Sylar's going to leave again, Luke needs it to be because he forced Sylar away.

In the midst of bruising fists and bleeding gashes, where Sylar's teeth have cracked and torn Luke's skin, Luke doesn't see at once that Sylar isn't fighting back. And when he does, chest heaving and eyes stinging with the sweat streaming from his brow, Luke's body sags. Before him Sylar heals completely while Luke stays battered and he has to swallow down a wail at the sheer futility of what he's done.

Sylar grabs him by the shoulders and Luke does nothing but turn his face away, unable to meet Sylar's gaze to see the rejection he knows will be there. Luke's too weak and Luke's too feeble, in mind and in body, and it's no wonder that Sylar can leave him to his fate without a moment's regret. Instead of slapping him, or choking him with his mind, or even, as Sylar had threatened, slicing his head off to take Luke's power before he left, Sylar pulls him closer. And closer still, tugging him down and holding him tight as Sylar sits propped against the headboard with Luke in his lap.

Luke's confused because this is far beyond the last thing he expected and he's scared, because after what he's just done, no matter what comes next it can't be good. But more than anything, he's tired. Tired because he can't sleep for the nightmares and the fear, with arms that ache from fighting against someone who can't be beaten and drained at his core, feeling turned inside out as everything that he's been bottling up comes spilling out. And when Sylar hugs him, _hugs him_ tight, a hand to the back of Luke's neck urging him to lay his head upon his shoulder, Luke realises his cheeks are wet and that he's been crying with every punch he threw.

Sylar's fingers rake through his hair and Luke hates himself for the way he snivels against Sylar's chest.

Bitterly, he says, "You left me there."

"I'm here now," is Sylar's far too mild reply.

"They could have killed me!"

"But they didn't."

Under the fatigue and the full body ache that comes from holding back how he wants to scream and cry and slap Sylar until he begs for mercy out of sheer frustration, Luke can feel anger festering once more.

"That doesn't make it okay that you left," he hisses in desperation.

"Luke, I'm not your father," Sylar breathes.

Luke wants to laugh because it's too much like a line from Star Wars. But, if Sylar's Darth Vader that makes him Luke Skywalker and that can't be right. Luke isn't the hero in this story; he doesn't think he believes in heroes anymore. It was childish and stupid to think that coming with Sylar would make any difference at all, and it was childish and stupid to want so badly that it would.

The sound that comes out of his mouth is more like a sob than a chuckle. The feeling of hysteria lodged in his chest isn't because Luke finds this funny but because it's fucking tragic that when you get right down to it, Luke _does_ wish Sylar were his father. Sadistic, psychotic and cruel though he may be, he's still done more for Luke than his dad ever has. Luke hides his face in the crook of Sylar's neck and bites his cheek to keep himself from weeping at the unfairness of it all.

Sylar's breath ruffles his hair and under the thin cotton of the t-shirt he sleeps in, Luke can feel Sylar's heartbeat pounding against his palm. He presses himself closer to Sylar's chest, confused when, instead of throwing him off, Sylar's arms clasp around him tighter.

"I'm not like your dad," Sylar whispers. "I'm not going to sneak off in the middle of the night and leave you wondering what you did wrong. You don't have to sit up all night and keep an eye on me. When I go, you'll see me leave. "

It shouldn't be comforting but it is. If Sylar had tried to claim he'll never go, that coming back for Luke had been a change of heart that'd stick, Luke would probably have nuked him. Killed him then and there for the lies; for the taser burns on his shoulder that still sting; for not giving a shit about Luke when Luke is finding he cares too much. But, brutal as they are, at least Sylar's words are honest. Honesty isn't something Luke is used to hearing. He thinks that as long Sylar lets him know where he stands, he can make sure that the day Sylar wants to leave never comes. He _isn't_ Luke's father and maybe that means Luke isn't fighting a battle that's already been lost.

"You should really be more worried about me killing you than walking out on you." His voice is light, like it isn't a threat, but Luke can see the warning there: another temper tantrum and Sylar might be pushed too far.

"Sorry," Luke mumbles, shivering as Sylar gently strokes his cheek.

"It's okay," Sylar says. "This time."

Luke feels Sylar softly kiss the top of his head and that conflicted feeling churns in his chest and gut again. He swallows dryly, suddenly acutely aware of how he is sitting in Sylar's lap, his ass on Sylar's thighs, cheek against his clavicle with both hands still twisted in the front of Sylar's t-shirt. They're on the bed and the room is dark, and all Luke can seem to focus on is that his own t-shirt has rucked up in the struggle and Sylar's forearm, warm and firm and strong, is pressing to his naked back as he holds him. Luke makes a noise that sounds like a whine because he should move but he isn't sure he wants to. The moment where letting himself be hugged like this might be okay has passed, and now it's getting weird.

"Luke," Sylar says and Luke doesn't have to see his face to know that he's smiling. He squeezes Luke a little tighter and Luke realises that he's gone tense, body humming in anticipation of whatever is going to happen happening.

One long finger curls under Luke's chin, nudging him up until Luke lifts his face from Sylar's neck and looks at him. He finds that he can't hold Sylar's gaze, staring instead at the rough scruff of his stubble and the way he bites his bottom lip, the tips of two white teeth gripping the flesh until it blanches.

"I'm not your dad, Luke."

"I know," Luke says.

And maybe that's all Sylar needed to hear because he hums softly and leans in closer, pressing his lips to Luke's tear-streaked cheeks to kiss away the dampness there. When their mouths finally meet, Luke doesn't expect it to be as gentle as it is.

Sylar's lips are full and plump. He kisses slowly, one hand cupped around Luke's jaw to guide him. Luke tilts his head and lets it happen, fists grabbing more roughly to the front of Sylar's shirt. The tension in his spine has gone and he arches his back, begging for more. The tip of Sylar's tongue slides along his lips and Luke parts them. Sylar tastes of toothpaste and of the candy he'd been snacking on as he read. Luke darts in with his tongue again and again, trying to snatch the different flavours from the roof of Sylar's mouth until they break apart and Luke exhales a shuddering sigh.

Luke closes his eyes and licks his lips, resting against Sylar's mouth when he drops a kiss to Luke's brow.

"Okay?" he asks.

Luke shrugs and keeps his eyes shut tight, too many emotions that he can't name warring deep inside him. His tongue feels thick and his throat is choked, and Luke finds that he's getting angry again, his ability rumbling just below his skin. What if _this_ is all that Sylar wants to keep him for?

Luke has wanted this, in some abstract way where he has skirted the truth and told himself that he and Sylar have something _more_ without admitting to needing another man like this. In the shower, washing off the grit in his hair and the blood on his skin, Luke had touched himself, jerking off to calm his nerves. When he came, it was Sylar that he'd thought of. But Luke had shaken it off as gratitude for saving his life; nothing more, he'd thought. But now, Luke knows that isn't true.

It _is_ something more, something much more, and he's been on edge with it since they'd stolen his mother's car. He's been watching Sylar as constantly as Sylar's been watching him, and Luke's been waiting unconsciously for some sign that this, this kiss, might have any hope of happening. And now that it has, it feels all wrong. How can Sylar really want him if he can kiss Luke with the blunt reality that he _will_ leave still bitter on his tongue?

Luke bites his lip to stifle a whimper, half-aware of the way he's mimicking Sylar's mannerisms. Sylar isn't his father, and Luke will be damned before he wastes his life over again being angry and resentful, pining for the love of a man who never really wanted him. Always have a goal in mind, Sylar had said and Luke has a goal. He won't be left behind again and if this is what he has to do to make that happen, he's smart enough not to let foolish hurt feelings get in his way. If Sylar wants a whore to tag along at his side, then Luke will be his whore. It's just sex, he tries to tell himself, pushing aside a queasy feeling at the thought of being bent over and fucked with no preamble.

With trembling hands, Luke reaches down between them, noticing for the first time that Sylar is half-hard against his hip and he's not sure when that happened. And if he feels himself losing a little respect for Sylar and the shine starts to dull on the way Luke sees him, then so what? Sylar still has more power and knows more about who Luke is and who Luke can be than anyone Luke has ever known. It's not like Luke ever _really_ thought Sylar was perfect. So why are tears prickling the backs of his eyes again and his breath coming in quick, shallow pants that he can't control?

Luke sniffs, too loudly, running his hands from Sylar's chest to his stomach, hovering there unable to force his fingers lower. He tries to pull himself together because Sylar's not going to find this sexy, Luke hopes, if he thinks Luke doesn't want it. Luke can't look up and meet his eyes because if he does he might not be able to stop himself from crying. Sylar has already seen him too weak tonight. Under his hands, Sylar's chest rises and falls as he breathes heavily, hissing quietly at Luke's touch. He steels his nerves, trying to convince himself that this is near enough to what he wants that he should be grateful for this alone. Eyes still closed, Luke presses his palm to Sylar's crotch.

"No, Luke," Sylar says, lips moving against Luke's forehead as he gently pulls Luke's hand away. "Not like that."

Luke looks up in confusion, blinking to try and keep his eyes from looking too wet and trying not think of how Sylar wants it, if not like that.

"Shhh," Sylar insists, though Luke's not sure he's made a sound. He tries to keep his face impassive but Sylar's clearly seen the hesitation there.

"Here," he whispers. Sylar's hand curves around his neck and for a moment, Luke goes cold before he acquiesces. But when Sylar leads him down, he nestles Luke's nose not between his legs but back at the crook of his neck. "Right here," Sylar mumbles, the words muffled in Luke's hair.

Fingers drag soothingly through his hair and then caress him from jaw to neck, from ear to shoulder, from crown down to elbow in ever longer strokes until Sylar is petting the length of Luke's curled body. Luke sighs, relaxing into it, leaning against the firm breadth of Sylar's chest, wider than the span of Luke's own narrow shoulders, because it feels good, really good to be touched like this. And when Sylar's hands slide up his shirt, Luke doesn't say no. He nips at Sylar's neck, watching as the red welts he leaves form and fade, wanting to cause Sylar pain as well as pleasure, just like Sylar's doing to him. But the pain that Sylar's inflicting doesn't leave a mark, and maybe it isn't Sylar's fault at all but Luke's for always wanting desperately what he can't have. Maybe Luke's to blame for everything because his dad left and Sylar left and the only common factor is Luke himself. Luke thinks that maybe if he doesn't _need_ so much he won't drive Sylar away again.

So when Sylar's hands move to his hips and they dip below the waistband of his boxers, Luke ignores the voice that's screaming in his head that this isn't how he wanted this to be and lifts his ass, letting Sylar slide his underwear down his thighs. Luke waits for the order he's sure is coming to get up on his hands and knees.

Instead, Sylar's hand glides down the centre of his chest and lower, thumb teasing his navel as it passes. He scratches lightly at the hair between Luke's legs and reaches down to hold Luke's cock and balls in hand. Luke knows his cheeks are burning and he turns his face to Sylar's shoulder, trying to hide his shame as Sylar finds him mostly flaccid. In Sylar's wide palm, with Sylar's too-thick, too-hard erection still notched against his hip, Luke's dick seems small and limp, pathetic in comparison, and he doesn't know how Sylar can stand to touch him there at all but he does, and he doesn't seem to want to stop.

Sylar kneads his cock with expert fingers, pulling and stroking and squeezing just right until Luke is groaning despite himself at the fizz of hormones in his groin and gut. Luke feels that desperate aching tug in his balls and that throb that thrills at the base of his dick, and he knows he's hardening on Sylar's palm. He spreads his thighs wider, stretching the elastic of his boxers to the limit almost without thinking, and he hears Sylar moan against his temple in approval. Sylar's hand moves quicker now, up-down, up-down, over flesh that's very nearly fully hard, curving up towards Luke's belly.

Luke hates himself for how good it feels. He hates that he should be so starved for love or something like it that the heady, too-warm feeling flooding though him and pooling in his groin is almost enough to overwhelm the lingering sense that this is wrong. He hates himself for caving to the pleasure, to the press of Sylar's thumb to his leaking tip, to the feather of his palm over the head and the tease of his fingers at the spot below the crown. Luke hates that every time Sylar's fingertips trace up along his underside, moving in time to the pulse of the thick vein there, he has to bite his tongue to stop himself from begging for more.

And when Luke comes, teeth latched to the ridge of Sylar's clavicle to keep himself from sobbing, he hates that too. He hates that it feels both better and worse than any orgasm that he has had before and he hates that Sylar has barely had to touch him at all to make him feel that way. More than anything, Luke hates Sylar because he shouldn't have to trade his ass for Sylar's grudging attention and he shouldn't want attention so badly that no matter how sick it makes Luke feel, he'll do it.

He rides out the aftershocks that shake his body, Sylar still caressing him. And when his jaw relaxes, and Sylar's now-wet hand finally releases him, Luke finds that Sylar's t-shirt is damp at the shoulder with more than just spit from his bite. His eyes feel puffy and his body feels weak. He's tired, and not in the pleasant, hazy way that usually follows when he's sticky like this. He opens his eyes but keeps them downcast, watching with a disinterested gaze as Sylar cleans his hand and Luke's crotch with tissue from the nightstand.

"Up," Sylar mutters.

Luke holds his breath, thinking that this is it. He leans on Sylar's shoulder for support as he moves, and digs his nails in harder than he should. He feels a petty sense of victory at Sylar's muted snarl of pain. But when Luke tries to twist, to get on his knees and thrust his ass in the air like a good little slut, Sylar catches him in an iron grip. Then he's tugging up Luke's shorts and carefully putting him away, and when he's dressed again, Sylar spreads his own legs and settles Luke down on the arc of mattress between his thighs.

Suddenly, the lights are off and there's blankets swathed around them. Sylar's hand still smells of sex as he tucks the sheets under Luke's chin. Sylar flexes his legs, bending and stretching from the knee to get the feeling back where Luke's weight has sat for so long. And then, Sylar shuffles down a little, no longer sitting upright but reclining back, head still propped against the headboard as he folds his hand around Luke's cheek, guiding him down to lay upon his breast.

"Sleep," he breathes, and says no more.

This can't be right, Luke thinks. This can't be it, because trapped between their stomachs, Sylar's cock is still thick, still hard and hot and not something that Sylar could possibly have forgotten about. And Luke should feel relief, not the whiplash sting of rejection. Whatever Sylar's reasons, Luke doesn't have to follow through with false bravado. But, he doesn't feel relief and he does feel rejected because what if Sylar's reason is that he never wanted Luke at all?

He wants to pound his fists on Sylar's chest again, to beat him until Sylar makes this all make sense but instead he rolls his hips and grinds angrily against Sylar's dick. "Don't you wanna…?" he hisses accusingly as Sylar shifts beneath him.

"Not tonight." Sylar's thumb drags across Luke's cheek, swiping away a tear that has spilled in his frustration. "Not like this. Please go to sleep, Luke. I'll be here in the morning."

Sylar holds him in a close embrace, his longer legs framing Luke's, each thigh warm and solid against Luke's skin. When Luke cries, as silently as he can, Sylar's gentle fingers wipe away his tears. A soothing hand runs up and down Luke's spine, Sylar humming, "Hush now," as he rocks them both to sleep.

Sylar isn't Luke's father; Luke never loved his dad.


End file.
